


Aeterna Nox

by Evalein



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evalein/pseuds/Evalein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been subject to two traumatic events in his life thus far. This was his third.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aeterna Nox

**Author's Note:**

> 'Aeterna Nox' means 'Eternal Night' in Latin.  
> The text in italics within the brackets are Sherlock's thoughts.  
> I don't live in NYC so the setting in which the story takes place probably doesn't exist.

For some reason, the fire seemed to blaze brighter than usual tonight – that was what Sherlock thought, anyway. It _should_ have been easy for him to deduce what was the cause for its intensity _(Insomnia, perhaps?)_ but his mind was preoccupied with something of far more importance than a measly fire.

He sat in the leather chair with his elbows on his knees, hands crossed, chin resting on the backside of his intertwined fingers. He had a peculiar expression on his face, the kind he had made on only two occasions. One of which was when Irene had been murdered; the other when Detective Bell had been shot. The consultant had a difficult time coping with both events but those were nothing compared to the one that had taken place three days ago.

He closed his eyes to recall those crucial moments. Normally, he could remember events with ease. Sound. Touch. Smell. All of these elements were clear in his mind. Not tonight.

Red. That was the first thing that greeted him behind closed eyelids. He immediately reopened his eyes and jolted upright, his hands digging into the leather armrests. His heart rate had increased and already his breathing had gotten faster. And to think that was only the effect of seeing the colour.

A moment passed before Sherlock could try attempt number two. He sat back in the chair and, while taking slow, deep breaths, closed his eyes again. This time his mind was not overcome with red but rather a scenery.

Fences on either side of a set of train tracks. Gravel beneath his feet. The smell of fries from a nearby burger joint hung in the air. They were pursuing a prime suspect connected to a string of murders that had occurred throughout New York for the past five years. Turned out that suspect was their culprit indeed and upon being cornered had taken to the streets. Sherlock and Watson had split up, a move his partner had decided on her own. _'To cover more ground,'_ she had said. Although she had taken some lessons in self defence from the consultant himself, Sherlock was still wary about her call but trusted in her ability to be safe.

_(How stupid of me.)_

It had been around four minutes since he and Watson had separated; he was on one side of the fence, she on the other. The culprit was on one of the two sides but which one, they weren't sure, having lost sight of him as he entered the rail yard due to traffic. To their extent of knowledge, he wasn't armed and knowing that helped ease Sherlock's worried mind. They had called for backup, of course, before entering the place. Gregson had told them to stay back and let the police handle the situation but time was of the essence and Sherlock didn't want to risk letting the criminal get away. He could handle it.

_(Why didn't I listen?)_

Hope of finding the criminal was fading by the second. Where could he have gone? There was nowhere to seek refuge besides hiding between the massive containers. Even then it would be a matter of time before he got caught. Beyond the rail yard was only train tracks for a good mile. He would easily be spotted if he left his hiding spot. Perhaps he was planning on waiting it out before making a mad dash to freedom?

Sherlock was in the middle of racking his brain trying to think of the possibilities when a shout was made.

_'I found his scarf, Sher--'_

The train came passing by, drowning out the rest of what Watson was saying and obscuring his view on her. He could only stand there on the other side of the train tracks and catch glimpses of her through the gaps of each compartment. In her hand was a red scarf the culprit had been wearing. He couldn't be far.

_(I spoke too soon.)_

Then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, a figure appeared behind Watson... and he was approaching her fast. In his hand was a sharpened metal bar that shimmered in the sunlight. Sherlock's throat tightened but he managed to call out:

_'Watson!'_

It was no use. His voice couldn't be heard through the roaring of the train and if she couldn't hear him, he doubted that she could hear the sound of gravel shifting behind her. He waved his arms, pointed behind him, rattled the fence; did anything he could to get her to notice. She had cocked her head to side, mouthed _'What?'_ and finally turned around but by then it was too late. He watched in horror as the man put his free arm around Watson's throat, gagging her, and in one swift motion, plunged the bar deep into her chest.

All Sherlock could do was grip tightly onto the fence, turning his knuckles white, and stare as blood spilled forth from his partner's chest, painting her white sweater crimson. Her eyes locked onto his for a split second before they rolled back into her head. The man grinned widely and upon noticing her limp body, released his hold on her and ran away. She immediately collapsed onto the floor.

_(She needed me. And I wasn't there.)_

The train finally passed and Sherlock could see the criminal making his escape. Police sirens were blaring nearby and the sound of a copter could be heard. They'd get the man. They'd get him and he would be sentenced to life in prison and justice would be served for all of his victims. Such a feat would normally fill the consultant with a sense of accomplishment. It didn't. There was no joy or feelings of triumph. In fact, he was void of all emotions.

_(She looked at me. She looked and I could only look back.)_

Even after the murderer was in custody and the paramedics had taken Watson's body away, Sherlock didn't move. His hands were still clutched onto the wire fence and his eyes were still where Watson had fallen. It was a dream. It had to be. She couldn't be dead. Not Watson. Not her.

_(Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.)_

The words were repeated again and again in his head but there was a limit to how long he could believe them. Finally, the reality of what just happened started to sink in. The vision of Watson's pale body lying on the gravel was engraved in his mind. It made his stomach churn and swallowing suddenly became difficult. A tidal wave of emotions soon ensued and he did something he hadn't done before; not when Irene died, not when Marcus got shot down.

He fell to his knees and cried.

And that was his account of the events.

Sherlock opened his eyes, having to blink twice to get used to the bright fire. He exhaled deeply as he rested his head against the chair and stared up at the ceiling. Despite it being three days since the incidents, the memories were still as vivid as ever. For the first time, he loathed being able to remember everything with such detail. It didn't help that he would recall the good memories of his partner alongside the gruesome one.

He would see her in his dream smiling that perfect smile of hers, scolding him for his ethics or lack thereof, reading a book while sprawled out on the couch, only to have flashes of blood and her terrified face appear. It was then that he would jolt awake with his body covered in sweat and his heart pounding furiously in his chest. When it happened on the second night, he opted out of sleeping entirely.

Brownstone seemed colder without her now. Empty. Darker. He had forgotten about how quiet the house could be ever since Watson stepped foot into his life. He had forgotten what loneliness felt like, forgotten that the mountain of case files to ponder over couldn't replace the warmth and comfort of human contact. Now he remembered all those facts and his heart ached terribly at the realization.

Sherlock took his eyes off the ceiling and turned his head over to the couch. Even now he could clearly see Watson sleeping there with the blanket pulled up to her chin and her hair framing her face, tired after a long night of going over case files. He managed a half-hearted smile.

“I'll miss you, Joan.”


End file.
